


In your heart, in your mind, I'll stay with you for all of time

by ghettoassenglishman



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Doctors, Fluff, Future Fic, Hospitals, I'm so sorry for this, Illness, M/M, Sadness, based on a imagine your otp thingy, cry - Freeform, dying Ian, heart failure, shit at summaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 12:53:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3291020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The doctor was speaking bullshit, utter bullshit. Mickey would have seen this, he would have fucking known. “What the fuck does that even mean?” At this point he didn't want to believe it, Ian was healthy.</p><p>“Ian has heart failure.” "<br/>-</p><p>Years ago Mickey had promised Ian that he would do anything for him, climb fucking mountains for him, but Ian would never know how far Mickey would actually go, just for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In your heart, in your mind, I'll stay with you for all of time

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, im really am sorry
> 
> \- based on, Person A of the OTP saying they’d do anything for Person B. B always thought it was sweet, and always said the same, but never thought how far person A would go for them.
> 
> I also used some dialogue from Seven Pounds, because I fucking cried so much at that film,.

 

It all started when Ian would shoot up in the middle of the night, his hand clutching to his soaked chest, gasping for what felt impossible. Mickey would reflex up, too, his arms failing to find any sense of direction through his haze of sleep. Ian would stand up, slowly pacing the room, using objects to pace himself into a natural breathing routine. Mickey just assumed it was nightmares, they both had them, Ian worse than Mickey. It would explain the soaked chest, the cries out when he sprung up in pure shock of something Mickey never knew.

 

Then he had noticed that Ian didn't go on his runs that much anymore. Fiona would jog round, all the gear on and ready to go, Ian would just shrug and lie back down complaining that he just wasn't _that_ fit anymore. Again, being Mickey, he assumed Ian had just given up with exercise, just like he had, and wanted to stay in and relish the warmth of their bed. At first Mickey would panic, he had seen these mood swings before, but Ian was stable on his med's, a therapy session each week. It couldn't be that, so he shrugged it off. Ian just didn't want to do exercise.

 

It wasn't like he had noticed it, more like heard it. The question of “it” wasn't yet answered because he wasn't that sure what it was. Ian would breath and it sounded like his throat was straining, as if he was breathing through cut glass and each breath cut a jagged line across him. Mickey would hear it, sometimes getting louder, he would watch Ian with weary eyes, but he just assumed it was a cold. It was winter after all, so he left it. They had been through enough shit, five years after Mickey had come out and Ian went off the rails and went out for help, they could fight a fucking cold.

 

“I'm not that hungry.” The repeated words he heard almost everyday, Ian just wouldn't eat. They would buy a take away each friday, the day that Yev would usually come by, they would all sit around the table scoffing their faces off cheap burgers and a bottle of coke. This time, like the last three weeks, Ian had only eaten a couple of chips and a lousy few bites from his burger, patting his stomach as if he was full. Even Yev would try and push him to eat more, reaccounting the gingers own words and shouting “You gotta eat Dada Ian, you need to be big and strong.” Ian would still laugh, he would still give Mickey that lob-sided smile, he would still pull Yev on his lap and ruffle his hair. But he just wouldn't eat. Mickey watched with a smile covering his concern, maybe Ian was getting bad again, or worse. Not yet could he get his head around it. Ian was getting smaller, his bone bracing through his skin whenever they got the chance to fuck. His rib cage would imprint his skin, forcing Mickey to want to touch them and kiss them better. Mickey didn't understand, not yet.

 

To top off the wheezing breathing, Ian had inherited a cough. More than a cough. A deadly weapon that kept them both up all night, Ian would flinch up his hands pulling against his throat. Mickey would peer open his eyes, knowing that Ian was in a crucial pain. Once he picked up on it, telling him that he needed to see a fucking doctor, he declined, he would always do that. He would say that it was nothing, “Just a cold Mick, it will pass.”It didn't pass, and it was obviously not a cold. Mickey couldn't persuade him though, despite the cough and strange behaviour he would _always_ be a stubborn dick.

 

That was until Mickey and Yev had come home one day, just after picking the kid up from school. The door had opened, the fresh smell of food basking through the air. Ian was cooking, Mickey knew that he was the only fucker he knew that actually _knew_ how to make a perfect chicken casserole. Yev had ran off into the front room, plodding himself onto the sofa the remote already in his hands. Mickey hadn't caught sight of Ian, he just guessed that the redhead was prancing around the house trying to find something. Unfortunately, he wasn't. Mickey wished he was.

 

As soon as his eyes hit the kitchen floor, he saw more than he had imagine. Ian was led face down against the tile, his hands sprawled out and a spoon astray amongst his fallen limbs. Without thinking Mickey jumped to the ground, his hands frantically trying to wake Ian up. “Ian? Ian.!” He had pulled the phone out his pocket, eyes still scanning for blood but there was nothing. Yev had ran over at the noise, he too, starting to try wake Ian up with a shake to his body. Mickey pulled up Ian's wrist checking for a pulse, his fingers wrapped _way_ too easily around the limp wrist.

 

That night Mickey had watched in shock as an ambulance pulled up, lifting Ian's body like a feather in their hands, into a stretcher. Mickey held Yev close, trying to sooth the sobbing little boy as he felt his own heart shatter. All night he had waited in the waiting room, asking constantly for answers on Ian's details. Yev had fallen asleep in his arms, his eyes still rimmed red against Mickey's tear soaked shirt. They still had no news. It was eight hours after Mickey had found Ian, and still no fucking news. They could count the amount of families passing through, waiting and then reuniting with their families in a matter of two hours. Mickey didn't know whether he would have his family back again, he didn't know whether reuniting was even on the fucking cards.

 

“Sir?” He felt himself stir against a unfamiliar, urging touch. “Mr Milkovich.” Mickey opened his eyes to the voice, noticing that Yev was still clutched to his side like a kola. The doctor was stood before them, clip board in his hand, he had a sympathetic look on his face that Mickey immediately wanted to rip off. The clock read noon, it was the next day. “Ian has responded, we were able to get him awake two hours ago and he's still doing well.”

 

Mickey felt the heat creep up, the rise in his chest building. “Two hours ago? You left it two fucking hours to tell me about this?!” Yev squirmed in his arms, one little hand wrapping around his dads waist as he knew something bad was going on, sixth sense or some shit. The doctor looked suddently uncomfortable, his eyes glancing down to Mickey's tattoo's, he breathed in deeply and sat down next to Mickey.

 

“We didn't want to tell you while your son was here, Mr Milkovich.”

 

Mickey's eyes latched from the doctor to a shivering Yev. God, if the doctor was asking to speak privately then he had to be bad, did it? Rolling his neck he prepared for the worse. “Whatever you want to say to me you can say in-front of him, he's may be my fucking partner but he's his dad too.” Instinctively his arms tightened around his son, wanting to just hold his hands over his ears and block it out from what he was about to hear.

 

The doctor bit his lip, slowly nodding anyway. “Ian, is in a critical state.” He looked for Mickey's reaction, only receiving wide eyes and a glare to carry on. “Ian's heart is slowly shutting down, it's working fine for now but it's tiring out. At this time he is not able to preform much physical activity, if that any at all. The black out was a formative symptom, the vital organs control each other in this situation, the brain blacked out making him fall.”

 

The doctor was speaking bullshit, utter bullshit. Mickey would have seen this, he would have fucking _known._ “What the fuck does that even mean?” At this point he didn't want to believe it, Ian was healthy. More healthy then all of fucking southside put together, how can his heart be playing up? Mickey felt the seat sinking, his body getting heavier as the world moved in a bask slow motion.

 

“Ian has heart failure.”

 

\----

 

That was it, that was what the fucking world had fated Ian. Heart failure. Out of all the things they had to _fail_ it had to be his heart, the main aspect to Ian Gallagher. Mickey always felt Ian's heart belonged to him, he knew it did because Ian wasn't loving anyone but him, but he knew someone else had the power to take it now, not physically but in a mask of a disease. After the doctor had told him he had gone into a ball of fire, nearly smashing up the whole of the waiting room in anger. With restraints and a cry from Yev he was able to calm himself down, tears still spilling from his eyes. Luckily, the doctor wasn't as much of a dick as he looked, he had let Mickey see Ian despite his outburst.

 

To this day he could remember the dipped head and sobbing coming from the hospital room as he opened the door. Implanted in his mind he couldn't shake off the words Ian had said as Mickey and Yev had squished themselves onto Ian's cot-bed. “I don't want to die, Mick. I don't.” No matter how hard Mickey tried, those words never would shake.

 

–

 

They were all cuddling against the couch, Ian's head in Mickey's lap with Yev asleep against his chest. Mickey's hands were obliviously running through his hair, his eyes clasped to the television screen. It had been almost four months since Ian's fall, four months since they all found out that Ian's heart wasn't cutting out like it used to. The Gallagher's all swarmed in with cries and hugs, clasping him tight and begging him it would be al right. Mickey didn't like to treat him like he was broken, he watched him closely but in secret. Ian would go each week to a exercise programme that would help build up his strength, help his breathing, and reduce the hurt of his symptoms. Not only that, he had over five medicines to take, all in which were as annoying as each other. Mickey would also stand in and help him through the dizziness that each one gave him, holding the glass of water by him.

 

Ian sighed heavily, not wanting to think about loosing anything any more. Eyes wet with incoming tears, because maybe yeh he had thought about drying a couple of times, maybe he had cried himself to sleep because he _knows_ his life won't be as long as he wished it was. Mickey must of heard and felt his shift, his hand stopping against Ian's hair. “What's up tough guy?”

 

Over the last five years they had gotten very comfortable, getting an apartment outside of Chicago, finally being comfortable and _open._ Didn't change the nicknames though, Ian was glad they stayed. “I was just thinking.” Mickey knew he regretted asking because he knew what would be on Ian's mind right now. “I'm on status 2 which means I'm sick enough to be on the national UNOS waiting list, but-but, I ain't sick _enough_ to be admitted into hospital and put on Status 1.” He was aware of his rambling, but it had been stuck on his chest all day, he needed to speak out.

 

Mickey had no clue, Ian had turned into a expert on that shit; always reading up on ways to keep himself fit and not letting his heart pull him down again. Mickey was always shocked, confused about Ian's pure determination when things went crashing down. He wished he could say the same thing about himself. “What the fuck are you talking about? Status, wha-” Mickey knew, deep down. He just didn't want to admit it, the doctor would talk and talk and he just wanted to hear nothing but “He will be okay” Even now, he was starting to get sick of _them_ words.

 

Ian ran his hand over the little boys back that breathed quietly on his chest, smiling up to Mickey because he could see the concern in the ex-convicts eyes, he could see that Mickey was trying. “I figured if my heart starts to fail quickly and no donor can be located then I'm...screwed.” The last words drawn out just like the time he wished he had. Looking away from Mickey's eyes, the blue spectrum that made him tingle from head to toe, he closed his eyes before speaking again.

 

“Mick, what If I don't deserve a heart?”

 

Suddenly Mickey slapped Ian's forehead, his nose slightly flaring. “Just because your sick doesn't mean I can't still kick your ass.” The tone softened as Mickey's hand moved from the red strands and over to Ian's chest, he rested his palm above the skin that was shielding Ian's vital organ, the one thing that completed Ian but failed him simultaneously. “Don't you ever fucking say that, _ever.”_ Mickey warned him with a stern look, his thumb moving absently against Ian's shirt.

 

Ian looked up at him with those green balls of light, like an angel itself had possessed him. Mickey's heart fluttered, something he felt guilty for feeling it because Ian might not beable to feel his heart flutter soon. Ian _deserved_ to have a heart, out of everyone.

 

 

Ian had fallen. Ian had gone down like a bag of bricks against the pavement. They were just walking home, laughing, playing _even_ holding hands. Things were going well, the treatment was helping, the med's were annoying but they weren't so bad any more. They had just rounded the block up towards the Milkovich house and Ian pulled his hand out of Mickey's to feel at his chest. The smaller boy instantly dropped his playful act and pushed to Ian's aid, asking him varieties of questions that were hardly making sense to Ian. The redhead had gripped to the fence, hands nearly going white. Until it went black, Mickey had caught him, but he had fell. Cold. The darkness had taken him and he couldn't control it.

 

Mickey was sleeping in the chair next to Ian's bed, something he told himself he had to get used to because it was starting to get more frequent now. One of his hands was embedded with Ian's, the tight grasp his last hope in knowing that Ian was alright. Ian had been awake just hours prior, still making jokes with a stupid grin on his face. _Still_ a little shit. Mickey was pried awake by the sound of the door opening, his hand moving with Ian's as the taller boy shifted on the bed. The doctor, the one he knew, stepped in a box in his hand and the same clip board in the other. Mickey looked towards Ian, who too, was looking his way. Ian had moved up the bed, back against the metal head board.

 

The doctor took a quick glance from left to right, putting his board into the pocket at the end of the bed that held Ian's other files. He started, “Good morning, Ian. Mickey. How are you feeling?” The typical doctor routine, Mickey thought. They always asked that question, clearly knowing the patient was _not_ okay.

 

Ian coughed a wheezy breath before replying, “I'm good. Okay. I just feel a bit weird that's all, is was just a fall right?” They had been here many times before, Ian had regular black outs. Not as servere as this one, but they were typically used to the conversations, tests and questions thrown at them. Mickey squeezed his hand in reassurance, his finger brushing over the tendons visible in Ian's hand.

 

They both heard a sigh, the doctor shuffled on his feet. “You fainted because your heart was too weak to pump the blood to your brain. It enlarged and it's starting to shut down. Lucky you had Mickey there otherwise things could of gotten worse.”

 

Mickey bit down, hard against his lips at the words. Shut down. _Shut down._ “His heart can't just fucking shut down, aren't you doctors aren't you meant to sort that shit out.” He didn't mean to snap, but Ian was taking this so calmly, as if he wasn't in the path to nearing death. Mickey felt his own heart smack against the chest, almost like it was calling to burst out, as if it was wanting to be set free.

 

Ian pulsed his hand against Mickeys, squeezing it tight. “Mick.” He spoke in that calm voice that always, some how, settled Mickey into a brisk silence. The brunette nodded, his lip nearly bleeding as his teeth continued to sink in. He flinched as Ian wheezed taking in a deep breath, he could feel Ian shaking, trying to keep his cool. He wasn't fooling Mickey. “How long?” Ian asked, already knowing it wouldn't be too long.

 

Mickey didn't want to hear this, he didn't want to know how long left he had with the love of his fucking life. Shit, he said that. Well thought it. The doctor sighed, hand scratching at the back of his neck. “It's entirely up to your heart, Ian. Could be six weeks, maybe a month.”

 

Mickey felt the tears steaming, he laughed shakily. “Well, Ian's heart it solid rock. It could last for ever, ain't that right Ian?” He pointed his eyes towards Ian, who weakly smiled as the tears ran down his face. Mickey wasn't fooling anyone. “Ian, we will fight this, yeh?” Ian still didn't answer, he pushed himself closer to the smaller boy, but he didn't say anything.

 

Watching the small, shaky interaction the doctor continued pulling out the little box that he had kept inside of his pocket. “We've upped you to Status 1 B.”

 

Mickey caught Ian's sigh of some-what relief, how could he be relieved like _this?_ The tears spilt against Mickey's cheeks and he endlessly tried to wipe them away before anyone could see. Ian's thumb brushed against Mickey's, tapping his skin lightly. “Well, least I'm on the list.” Somewhere Mickey thought he could see Ian beam up, what was the fucking list? This wasn't right. Ian shouldn't have to be on a fucking list. Why couldn't it have been him, he had done shit to deserve it, not Ian.

 

The doctor chucked the small, black device into Ian's open hands, nodding with a smile at the good catch. “Not only that, but we're giving you this pager.” Mickey and Ian gave looks both towards the ancient box and towards the doctor. Elaborating a answer to their unspoken question he said, “When it goes off, it means you have a donor.”

 

Mickey felt his world shatter, it wasn't often someone would die with a heart ready to give. What if Ian's pager never went off, what then? What if there wasn't a heart to fit, no, he mustn't think like that. Not when Ian needed all the support he could get. Not when Ian was Ian. “What the fuck do we do now?” He asked, kissing Ian's hand still clasped between his. The shaking sensation he felt building in Ian's body, he felt within his own.

 

“We wait.” That was it, Ian burst through the seams, his whole body compulsing into shatters against the bed he was laid in. Mickey quickly pulled him to his own chest, muttering words into his ear that would not change anything.

 

\---]

 

It was weeks later, Mickey had done a lot of thinking lately, he had come up with something that he had ran by Lip but he wasn't sure, just yet if he could do it. Ian was aloud to come home, they had left him with some stabilizing drugs that would help him until they found a donor. They had just made love, slowly, passionately, like it was the first time but the last. Ian had whimpered and nearly cried knowing that one day this might not happen ever again. Now, they were laid around each other. Ian's hand in the crook of Mickey's shoulder, as the smaller boy ran his finger along his spin. Ian drew shapes across the brunettes pale skin, writing words that he wanted so much to say. Mickey had been nothing but perfect, he did everything for him. From cooking him meals, to help him going out on walks. The lot.

 

The pager was a reminder of his time, his life, his death. Each day Mickey would catch him looking at it, staring at it just hoping that it would beep any time soon. Mickey wished it would, he dreamed each night that the thing would wake him up and tell them that everything could be alright. But it had been weeks now and the silence remained. Each time he caught that stare, he knew his plan was more than what he wanted.

 

Ian wafted him from his thoughts, his smile curling up against his shoulder. “You want to play a game?” Mickey snorted, knowing that even though Ian was on the verge of death he was still the little kid at heart, still a little shit for that matter.

 

“You want to go again? God, damn Gallagher.” Mickey loved the way Ian's last name rolled against his lips, it made him think about how his name would sound with that on the end. Ian slapped his chest weakly, Mickey flinched in reflex but warped his hand smoothly around Ian's shoulders. “Fine you fucking dork, what game?”

 

Ian shyly hid his face, a tiny cough escaping his lips. “The “what if” game.” The green eyes left Mickey's and danced over his pecks and abs, the redhead's finger tracing each bump and each scar that rested against the pale skin. Mickey shook under the touch, trying to forget that Ian was probably knocking the thought of not being there anymore around in his head.

 

“How the fuck do we play?” Mickey asked, never playing that game before in his life. Each time he heard the crisp in Ian's voice, the wheeze after each cough, he tensed. That pager needed to go off.

 

“It's not hard Mickey.” Ian laughed, curling more into his side. “I'll start. What if...” He tapped his chin, pretending to act thinking but Mickey pulled his fingers away nibbling playfully at his fingertips. “What if, my pager goes off. And its a heart, and it works?” Ian quietly whispered, his voice delicate against Mickey's skin. The brunette heated up, arms tightening more now than ever.

 

“What if my body doesn't reject it, and what if I have time?” Ian carried on, lips brushing against Mickey's skin as their hands intertwined together. The taller boy paused, sucking in a breath that was forcing itself out into a sob. Ian nodded his head for Mickey to carry it on, not sure yet how much longer he could cope without crying.

 

Mickey changed their position,pulling them around so his chin was resting against Ian's chest. One of his hands trailed around Ian's heart, one finger drawing out the shape of it over and over. He hesitated at first, no matter how far they had come, he was still shit at this stuff. “What if? Hm, what if we have more children?” the question shocked Ian out of his hm, not yet saying anything because he could see Mickey wasn't yet finished. The brunette let a tear fall down, he didn't really care no more. “What if we got married?”

 

Ian opened and closed his mouth, “Then I would be Ian Milkovich wouldn't I.” His smirk was inevitable, it would always be there, for sure.

 

Mickey knocked his chin against his chest lightly, “Fuck off, Its going to be Mickey _Gallagher.”_ It felt weird saying it out loud, but it felt right. More than right. It fit, just like the shitty jigsaw he and Mandy used to do when they were kids. Ian fit him, they fit together. Everything they had, it fit. It fit.

 

Ian was beaming, his smile wider and brighter than candle light. “You only want to do that because you then can still call me “Gallagher.”” Mickey nodded sheepishly, humming as Ian's hand fell to the nape of his neck and played with the strands. “I love you.” The taller boy whispered, his voice softer than flour.

 

Mickey could have burst into tears right rhere, right then. But pulling himself together was his speciality, he could do that shit for a living. Kissing Ian softly he palmed at his cheek, loving the feeling of them _fitting._ He loved this, he loved.. he - “I love you too fucker.”

 

 

That was it, Mickey had decided. Ian deserved a heart, he didn't deserve to lie in a hospital bed and die. Years ago Mickey had promised Ian that he would do anything for him, climb fucking mountains for him, but Ian would never know how far Mickey would actually go, just for him.

 

“Mickey?” Lip had answered the phone, his voice hoarse from sleep. Mickey had managed to slip from Ian's arms kissing him, pulling his clothes on and leaving the house. He wouldn't regret this.

 

Mickey shook against the hold on the phone, his other hand holding the handgun he once stole from Ian's creepy-ass boyfriend. “Its time. This is fucking it. You gotta look after him, alright?” he stuttered his words, the tags against his neck burning through him. He could do this, this is for Ian. Everything is for Ian.

 

“Holy shit, Mickey. You can't—no, just-- Okay, I will. I promise.” Lips voice sounded wet, he had known for some time that this would happen soon. They had talked about it weeks before, hell, probably nearly a year back. Mickey never backed down from his choice. They had found out all the details, the requirements, they did everything.

 

Mickey laughed through his tears, sniffing loudly. “I still fucking hate you Lip, you asshole.” Some-how in a shitty way he had made an acquaintance to Ian's brother, he was still an asshole. The gun nearly fell from his hand, it all so crazy that he might not even aim straight.

 

“You're still a fucking dick Milkovich.”

 

That was it, the call was ended, and the gun was lifted.

 

\---

 

Ian woke up to a loud beeping sound, it was just by his head. “What the fu-” he noticed what it was and immediately sprung from the bed, his eyes filled with tears that finally he was getting a new heart. Just as he turned, face with a smile so wide, he noticed the bed was bare. “Mickey?Hey-” he coughed loud into his fist. “Mickey, Its fucking beeping.” Still nothing. As much as he didn't want to he still went to the hospital, knowing mickey he would probably be already there.

 

Before he knew it they were holding the gas tube against his breath, telling him to breath slowly and relax. It took him over, the blurred people around him fading more and more away. When he woke up, he couldn't wait to see Mickey. He couldn't wait to know that they could be them again, just as they always wanted to be.

 

The ached rivalled up his body, it felt like he had been thrown in front of a truck. When he finally opened his eyes, Mickey wasn't there. Everyone was there but Mickey wasn't.

 

 

Ian stared at himself in the mirror that once belonged to him and Mickey. For an hour now he had been crying, screaming, throwing shit where-ever capable, now he was silent. His eyes only gazing at the scar over his heart. Lip had told him everything, _everything._ How Mickey had killed himself the night they had made love, how his heart was the heart that was placed into his body. How Mickey had planned it all just so Ian could live. Ian couldn't stop crying, he wanted Mickey _here._ Those arms he wished to have were no longer there but he _needed_ them. Mickey had let go of his life so Ian could live. How was that fair, Ian started to trash the room again.

 

“How is that fucking fair!” Ian started pulling at drawers, kicking at boxes, throwing glasses and books at walls. The floor was covered in rubbish from head to toe, the bed turned over with all of the pillows and blankets scattered. “How is this fucking _fair.”_ Sobbed into his arms, trying to picture Mickey's shy grin he had seen that night they had talked. Mickey was the love of his life and no he was gone, gone for Ian.

 

There was a note, just at his foot. It was crumpled but it looked fairly new, he wiped his eyes and picked it up. Instantly he knew it was Mickey's, he could tell that beautiful handwriting from miles away. Without a doubt he burst into a mess again, wanting to claw the walls out. “ _Mickey.”_

 

The note read;

_My heart was always yours anyway. - Mickey Gallagher. (Fuck u tough guy)_

 

As he washed his face from the dirt that was beginning to cling to him, he caught his reflection in the mirror. He had not yet put a top on because he couldn't see himself to do so, Mickey's heart was inside of him. Beating. Pumping his blood, keeping him _alive._ Just like Mickey always kept him alive. With on finger he trailed along the scar, his eyes blinking fast to push back the tears. Mickey was gone, but not really. He was still there.

 

With his left hand he palmed his heart softly, his other hand reaching up and he put it ontop of it. Mickey was always there, his Mickey. Mickey fucking Gallagher had a ring to it. It fucking sucked, Mickey not being here, but in a sense he still was. Closing his eyes, he kept his hand stuck close to his heart.

 “I love you Mickey.”


End file.
